We would try to cover other stories. The editors would try to take the reporters off the "sniper hunt" and move us to different topics. After all, there was other news going on, wasn't there?

Then, invariably, something would happen. Someone would get hurt.

Once in a while, nothing would happen, but we'd be sent to the scene anyway. You would be surprised how a car backfiring or a screen door slamming sounds similar to a gunshot, especially to a population already on pins and needles.

One of the hardest parts to reconcile: knowing that 'he' was listening. Remember, we had no name, no face, no way of knowing who was doing this. What we knew for sure was that whenever we'd do a story about staying safe while pumping your gas, he'd shoot someone at a gas station.

One morning we talked with Montgomery County Police Chief Charles Moose about how children could be protected from the sniper. That's when the Chief made his now-famous pronouncement, "Your children are safe at school."

Soon after, the sniper shot 13-year old Iran Brown as he was dropped off near his school's front door.

That's the one that made Chief Moose cry on camera. Made some of my colleagues cry, too.

We knew the guy was thumbing his nose at police, and in my mind he was taking his cues from our news reports.

This is very hard to reconcile as a reporter. I felt like I was becoming part of the problem, and providing few solutions.

We had to cover the story, but it started to feel like we were giving this guy ideas -- precisely what we didn't want to do.

One very rainy day, about a week and a half into the sniper's shooting spree, I spent the morning doing a series of reports on how you can stay safe while pumping your gas.

I'd interviewed experts from the FBI about how -- if you feel the need -- you can crouch down behind your car's door as you fill your tank. Take a zig-zag pattern if you have to walk across the lot. Know your surroundings in case you have to duck and cover.

Just a few hours later, a gentleman was shot and killed as he gassed up at a Virginia gas station.

I got an icy feeling in my gut with that shooting. It was sickening; it really appeared that our reports were becoming part of the problem.

Fair or not, it wouldn't have surprised me to learn that the shooter was taking his cues from news reports.

I was in the field for a few hours more, then stuck in one of those traffic "dragnets" that had everyone looking for a white box truck. It was early afternoon before I finally arrived back at the radio station.

I made a beeline for the boss' office.

Jim Farley took one look at me and and knew what was about to happen. "Close the door," he said. "Do not lose it in that newsroom. Lose it in here."

I never did "lose it;" there was no time, and I was on deadline.

I was also exhausted and feeling incredibly guilty. The weight of it all seemed unrelenting and suffocating.

"This is our fault!" I said. "Whoever is doing this is listening to us and shooting more people! We are giving him ideas! How can we do our jobs if he's going to use the news to hurt people?"

Jim, ever the calm and patient employer, let me bounce off the walls for a few minutes. Then he put his hands on my shoulders and said, "Whoever is doing this is going to do it anyway. It is our job -- it is your job -- to make sure our audience knows what to do to stay safe. Remember that."

I held onto that, and it helped. I never forgot, though, how my blood turned cold when I realized that bad guys are listening to our news reports too. They get ideas.

And while that's not our "fault," per se, we as journalists have a responsibility to ensure that our facts our straight, our reporting is fair, and the news we provide is as balanced and accurate as possible.

That applies to everything we do, not just during an emergency, but all the time. Political reporting. Sports analysis. Investigative reports. We must always be above the fray, and not just pay lip service to objectivity, but practice it.

I was there the morning they caught the shooters. In the early, pre-dawn hours, I filed reports about how this might really, truly, be the end. That afternoon, my editor sent me to a suburban school to get reaction from students and parents, as we all appeared to be waking up from a nightmare.

Turns out, it was the very first day in three weeks that the teachers were able to let the kids outside for recess.

The scream of elation as those doors opened and the kids ran outside -- turning cartwheels, throwing leaves, literally dancing and laughing with each other -- still gives me chills. Happy chills.

That's when we noticed that the leaves had turned. The seasons had changed.

Autumn had arrived, and we'd nearly missed it.

We were missing October.